Il Mutor
by AriDaughterofZeus
Summary: Erik was ready to give up in the months after the chandelier fell. One thing kept him going: the silent piano prodigy who wandered into his lair. But the circus is determined to find her. With only one another to rely on, can they evade the circus and complete his masterpiece before the Masquerade?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: For anyone reading _A December to Remember_, I apologize. Writer's block is my worst enemy. However, that should be updated within a week or so. Besides, this plot bunny has something against me. This will probably be a collection of drabbles after the first ten chapters or so, but still. I hope no one minds the short chapters, but I have trouble writing long things.**

**Disclaimer: The normal. Even though I hope to someday star on Broadway, that's probably not going to happen.**

Erik POV

Slowly, gently. I scribble words on my page, determined to write down Christine's song. One last deed, I have decided. I will give it to Antoinette Giry in the morning. That will be the last they will hear of me, the man they call the Phantom.

The music is playing in my mind, so loud that I cannot hear the water lapping against the shore. Rarely does my head go so far ahead of my hands, but I must get the music out of my mind.

Louder than the music, I hear a crash.

Standing up, I walk to the shore of the lake. "Madame Giry?" I call, wary. She has a signal-specific tapping-which she would have done if it was her. I look around one last time.

A hand breaks the surface of the water as I watch. I might be a murderer, but only to achieve my own purpose. And this hand is small, so small I suspect it is a child. I dive into the water, swimming out to the place where I saw the hand.

I lift the child to the surface, already beginning to swim back. "You're safe," I whisper as they struggle against me. They continue to fight, however, until we reach shore.

Climbing out, I lay the child down on the bank. A young girl, from the looks. Her hair is cut short, however, so short that she almost appears to be a boy. She doesn't seem much older than ten years of age.

"Shh." I rub her back as she coughs up water. I can't be sure of what to do, but as she starts to breathe slower, I lift her up and place her in the boat to sleep. She is absolutely exhausted, I can already tell. As she curls up, I consider searching for Antoinette, just to try and figure out where the girl came from. But I stop when I notice a small mark on her left forearm. Freezing for a single moment, I pull up my own sleeve and examine the faded mark. The carrier pigeon, the symbol the circus branded its youngest members with, in case they were to run off. Why she was in the circus, I cannot be sure. But I do know one thing: Antoinette Giry must be told.

I sit down at my desk, picking up my pen and scribbling a message on one of the few blank sheets of paper I can find.

Giry-

I found a girl. A runaway. She has the mark of the circus branded on her arm, and she nearly drowned while wandering down here. She is still a child. Any information about her would be useful.

-Erik

P.S. The child is thin, but she does not appear to be injured after her swim. However, I would prefer if you could come down and check on her yourself. I will be in attendance at tomorrow's matinee in Box 5, so you may leave me a note with the time and location you would like me to meet you in that place.

I blot the final line before folding it carefully and putting the wax seal on it. Looking out to where the girl is still asleep, I grab a hunk of bread from my pantry before taking the note up through one of my tunnels. The evening performance is already underway, so I put the note on Antoinette's desk and go back to my lair, not wishing to reveal myself to the crowd while entering Box 5.

It seems that I am not meant to disappear yet, after all.

**Reviews are adored like the Phantom loves Christine!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Never expect two updates in a row from me. This plot bunny has word fleas, though, and is itching for me to write.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone but Abby.**

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The break of dawn in my lair has never been any different from the night. But this morning, it is indeed different.

I got up an hour earlier as the music box rang out. Christine's song has played through my mind all night, and I finally have the last harmony decided. So before I even consider eating or dressing, an hour is dedicated to my music.

As I finish, a scream rings out.

I stand, fixing the mask as I run outside. The girl is standing at the edge of the lake, looking around. When her eyes land on me, however, she backs into the water.

"You're safe." As she shakes her head, I pull up my sleeve. "Look. I escaped." She freezes, coming out of the water very slowly. Lifting her own arm, she cocks her head.

"Yes. It's faded. I've been here for years. You don't have to worry." The girl approaches me, tapping the mask with one hand in a questioning manner. I kneel down, knowing that she'll have seen far worse in the circus. Slowly, as her hands slip under the mask, it lifts up. I allow her to remove it fully, and she smiles slightly upon seeing my true face.

"What about you?" I whisper. She shakes her head, slipping the mask back into place. "Tell me," I urge her.

She looks me in the eye. Walking over to the organ, she opens Don Juan Triumphant-or at least, what I have written of it. Her hands move quickly over the keyboards, and music far more complex than what I have written for the simpletons in the orchestra resonates in the cavern. She plays a few minutes' worth of the music before I stop her.

"So that is the good of it. What, then, is the bad?" She stares at me for a full minute. Suddenly, it clicks as she raises her hand to her lips. "You're mute."

She nods, looking at the keyboard. She plays four notes: a, two distinct b's, and an e which she holds for four beats. She then looks at me.

"Your name?" I guess. She nods. "Hello, Abby. My name is Erik. Can you write?" She nods, smiling. "Follow me. I have paper." She runs after me, back to the cave.

As I sit down, she climbs up into my lap. Once I dip the pen in the ink, she takes it from me and begins writing.

_My name is Abby Williams. I was born in London, but my parents knew I was different. They gave me to the gypsies after finding out that, even though I was only four and could not speak, I could already play the piano when my mother was rehearsing her music. The gypsies then discovered that I had already taught myself to write. They put me on display, and I was with them for four years. I finally escaped last month just before they left Paris. I wandered, knowing they had left scouts to try and find me. When I saw the Opera, I snuck past the doorman. I saw your tunnel and followed it down here. However, as you now know, I cannot swim. You understand. _

It shocks me that a child is writing with such precision and vocabulary. However, I just witnessed it. I can barely remember when I was so young-I believe that was around the time the gypsies started to punish me if I did not perform. It was only a few years later, however, when I built the maze of mirrors. If I were to give little Abby an education, I can't imagine how advanced she may someday be.

But current matters are far more pressing. The green dress Abby is wearing is wet at the bottom, and the shoulders are ripped. "If I could find some of my old clothes, Abby, would you mind wearing them for a day or two?" She smiles, shrugging. I excuse myself as she waits patiently.

A few minutes later, I return with my clothes from when I was younger. "You're lucky I was small, Abby. These clothes will probably fit you pretty well." She smiles, and I step outside as she changes. When she exits after a few minutes, I redo a couple of the buttons on her shirt before getting some bread for us to share.

When we finish, Abby sets off on her own for a few minutes as I put the finishing touches on Christine's song. I finish, and look around for her. She's disappeared, though, so I call for her. After a few seconds, she comes back into sight carrying three rats. She stops at the keyboard, playing _F D_. Food.

I doubt she's ever had any good-quality meat.

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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I've been dreadfully sick for the past week...and now my soprano voice is dreadful, even though I've got auditions for the POTO medley in chorus this coming week. But at least I'm updating.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or anything related to it.**

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Chapter Three

"There is a performance at four o'clock, Abby. Would you like to attend?" She nods eagerly.

We have just finished lunch. For about an hour before we ate, I attempted to gauge the extent of her knowledge. Because of her time in the circus, her numerical sense is not nearly as advanced as most children her age. Her only true skills are in language and music. However, these are very advanced. I leave her at the organ, smiling.

I sit down to write a note to Antoinette for when she checks the box after the show. Because of the trouble with the chandelier, the performances are still rare. She wouldn't mind if I gave her a few little errands to run. So I list the basic things for Abby: a few dresses, possibly some thread so I can fix my clothes in case she prefers them. I also ask her to see about finding some quality meat so Abby can understand the good offerings of Paris. My final request is for appropriate books for a child her age, but still advanced enough to satisfy her. I have plenty of music for her to play, and my mathematical knowledge should be sufficient. I enclose four hundred francs, more than enough to cover the cost, because I know Antoinette has struggled since the chandelier's destruction lowered her pay. I owe her some form of compensation, the one woman decent enough to help me.

By the time I have finished, it is three o'clock. Abby has snuck in behind me, and watches as I seal the letter. CAN WE GO? she writes on a scrap of paper, her eyes pleading.

I sigh. "Fine." She runs off, beaming as she grabs the small jacket I gave her. I watch her, wondering what it feels like to be a child. Abby escaped the circus before her best years were over. Possibly, once she enjoys herself enough with meaningless play on her own, she might allow me to indulge in the fun.

I lead her on a meandering path through my tunnels, up into the box. She's still smiling, and bounces in her seat as we wait the final few minutes. While she's distracting herself, I read Antoinette's note. She says to pick her up in exactly twenty-four hours in Box Five, since it's an easy place for both of us to find. I put my note in its place, then turn and sit with Abby on my lap. She settles down quickly enough once the show has begun.

After a few minutes, however, she looks at me questioningly. I have her trace the letters of her sentence into my palm.

_What is it called?_

"Il Muto."

_Translate, please. I barely know other languages still. And how do you spell it?_

"I, L, M, U, T, O. The Mute."

_Should end with an R. Sounds better._

I laugh silently. "Oh, Abby." We watch more of the performance, but at intermission, Abby coughs. Three coughs. One patron in the audience who turns to the box. Ten seconds before I hear someone at the door.

I scoop up the child in my arms and run to the hidden doorway. Closing it most of the way behind us, I put her down and look back at the managers in the box. I silently shut the door the rest of the way before helping Abby stand.

_Sorry_, she traces into my palm while walking.

"There is no need to apologize, child. I have sneezed in there countless times. It is fine." She nods, apparently unconvinced.

As we make our way back down to the lair, Abby continues to cough. I resort to carrying her for the second half of our journey. Our arrival back at dinnertime doesn't seem to elicit any response from her, so I lay her down in my bed as I boil water for soup. Adding some of her rat meat and a few breadcrumbs, I step in again to see her.

"Abby? Are you hungry?" She nods weakly, smiling. I offer her a half-filled bowl, which she accepts gratefully. Slowly, she eats, coughing in between bites.

"Are you sick from your swim, or something else?" I ask. She holds up a single finger in response. I sit next to her, rubbing her back gently as she finishes the small meal.

"Sleep, child. I will be just outside." Abby smiles at me, snuggling down beneath the blankets.

I walk to my desk, thinking of the music I could teach her. Looking over to the score of Don Juan Triumphant, I smile. I sit for only a minute before scribbling down another song.

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